


one on one

by 0shadow_panther0



Series: one day at a time [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (largely) canon compliant, BAMF Carolina, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sparring, may or may not become a series, some ambiguous time frame post s15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 20:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14027922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0
Summary: Locus and Carolina talk. (There’s actually not a lot of talking involved.) (Rather, more punching and kicking.)





	one on one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greylina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greylina/gifts).



> joooules. this is all your fault. take responsibility.

Her eyes are green.

It’s the first thing he notices when she takes off her helmet, somehow before he notices that her hair is a bright, vivid red and that there’s a scar that carves a divot on her lower lip.

Her gaze cuts to him, glass-edge sharp, and narrow slightly. Suspicion and resentment in equal measure flicker through her eyes.

He doesn’t blame her.

“So,” she drawls, hair spilling over her shoulder as she tilts her head. “What happened to becoming ‘the perfect soldier?’”

Locus turns his head away. The weight of her stare is a heavy one. “It was a flawed idea,” he says. “I was… desperate. For direction.”

“You didn’t want to face the responsibility, you mean,” she snorts. The words are dry and derisive, but her tone suggests something else.

She seems familiar with the concept.

He exhales slowly. “You are… not incorrect,” he concedes.

Carolina looks at him- really looks at him, piercing, but not cold.

“I’ve helped people do terrible things,” she says conversationally. “ _I_ have done terrible things. But what you’ve done is worse.”

“Yes,” Locus agrees, because, once again, she is correct. He’s found that she usually is.

There’s a few moments of stifling silence. Carolina looks out at the horizon, the sky dyed crimson and gold.

She wears her hair like he used to, Locus notes absently. A low slung ponytail, like he did before he sheared it all off. Before Chorus. Before-

“Spar with me,” she says suddenly.

Locus blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Spar with me,” she repeats patiently, already tugging off her gauntlets. “I want to know for sure.”

“Know what?”

“Which of us is stronger.”

He stills completely. She seems to ignore his shock, retying her hair in a high bun before systematically stripping off the rest of her armor. Pauldrons, chestplate, boots, greaves.

She glances at him. “Well?”

A beat. “Fine.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before he takes off his helmet, and he does his best to ignore how she studies his face. The scar first- obviously- then her eyes trail across the sharp line of his cheek, the ridge of his brow, the dusting of stubble along his jaw. His hair, cropped short but unkempt, reminds him that he should shave soon.

Two, three years ago, he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a disheveled state. As it is now, barely feels a prickle of discomfort.

She warms up as he removes his armor, her undersuit stark black against her skin. She’s had time to relax, but ‘soft’ is the last word Locus would use to describe her. The sharp lines of muscle along her shoulders and thighs, the hard set to her mouth. War is hardly a distant memory.

The discarded armor forms a neat pile at his feet at about the same time Carolina starts to bounce on the balls of her feet, rolling her shoulders.

“Ready?”

He nods, a short dip of his head, and Carolina bares her teeth in what Locus is hesitant to call a smile.

“First to yield,” she says.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

She strikes first- a straightforward jab that he sidesteps neatly, followed by a low, sweeping kick that forces him two more steps back, and the game is on.

She is smaller than him, probably significantly lighter, especially out of armor- if he can pin her or catch her in a grapple, the battle is as good as won.

The issue, he thinks, will most likely be catching her.

The ground is grassy and soft, which is good, because once or twice so far he’s had to dive down and roll away from a particularly brutal kick.

He lands a few blows- glancing ones, mostly, although he lands a solid strike just below her collar that sends her stumbling back- and while her hits don’t hold as much force, she’s everywhere at once and then some.

He blocks a kick aimed at his throat with a forearm, pivots, sends a punch to her midsection. She turns and his fist sails by harmlessly, then catches his arm and locks it at the elbow. He jerks back as she pulls- and then he immediately regrets it, hissing with pain.

He starts to bring up his other arm to fend her off, but a low kick knocks his legs out from under at the same time she wrenches his arm back and whirls them around, and suddenly Locus is spitting dirt out of his mouth, arms twisted and pinned behind his back.

He strains, but her grip is steel and her knee is digging forcefully into the small of his back, and he winces.

He grits his teeth. “I yield,” he mutters after a moment.

She’s slow to release him- the pressure on his back lessens, then his wrists are freed, and finally the weight disappears completely. He clambers to his feet slowly, biting his tongue at the soreness and the multitude of bruises that are undoubtedly forming across his body.

“I win,” Carolina says, a smug lilt to her voice. She doesn’t even sound out of breath. He wonders, briefly, if he’s the one who’s out of shape- and dismisses the thought just as quickly.

She’s just good.

Oddly, he’s not bitter over it in the slightest.

“Round two?” she suggests. “Best of three.”

He nods in agreement, and then soundly loses the next round. And the round after that.


End file.
